'Til Death Do Us Part (32 page)

“That’s cool. Listen, Bailey’s come all the way down here to talk to you. We can’t go into all the details, but this is a pretty urgent matter.”

“This doesn’t involve the cops, does it? I mean, I’m not gonna have that CSI Miami guy knocking at my door, am I?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I just need to know what happened at the wedding that day. Chris said you saw something freaky.”

“It’s not that I saw something freaky. But something freaky happened to me. It was with one of those bridal chicks—not the bride, but the ones in the ugly dresses.”

I looked at him expectantly.

“I scored with one of them that day,” he continued. “Upstairs in some sort of dressing room. That’s why I didn’t want to get into it over the phone.”

“Which girl?” Chris asked.

“I don’t remember her name. She had short black hair, though.”

“Jamie?” I asked.

“If she’s the only one with short black hair, yeah. Like I said, I haven’t a clue what her name was.”

“And that’s
it
?” I asked, unable to disguise my frustration.

“Hold your horses. No, it’s not
it
. The girl went ballistic on me.”

“Why?” I asked. “Did she think you took advantage of her?”

“Hardly. I bet that chick has a fuck buddy in every state. No, I tried to take her picture. She had this little camera with her, and I thought she’d like a shot of herself in the postfuck afterglow. And she goes bananas. Tells me not to touch it, and then she starts punching at me.”

“And that’s what you consider to be something freaky happening at the reception?” Chris asked in annoyance.

“Hey, man, the chick hit me in the mouth with her fuckin’ hand. That’s pretty freaky, if you ask me.”

Chris touched my elbow and led me away.

“God, what a moron,” he said. “Look, I’m really sorry about this. I dragged you all the way down here for nothing.”

“No, it’s okay. What he said is huge.”

“What do you mean?”

I held out my hands in excitement. “He tried to use her camera and she went nuts. I knew she took a bunch of pictures that day, and I bet she was just trying to make sure nothing whatsoever happened to the film in the camera. I think what I’m looking for is in those pictures.”

CHAPTER 16

C
AN YOU GET
your hands on the pictures?” he asked. He had to practically yell over the din of the bar.

“I’ve
got
them,” I said, raising my own voice. “I’ve always suspected that they were important somehow, but this seems to confirm it.” I let my gaze absently roam the room as I began flipping through the photos in my mind, trying to recall each one of them.

“Where are—here, why don’t we find someplace better to talk,” Chris shouted. He reached for my hand and began to pull me through the crowd. The room was jam-packed now, and eighty percent of the people looked as if they were models, movie stars, or international drug dealers. Chris’s hand felt smooth and strong, and holding it made my heart skip nervously.

“So where
are
these pictures?” he asked as we stepped into the lobby, which seemed as serene as a Zen garden compared to the Sky Bar.

They were in my room at the Delano, tucked safely away in my tote bag. Yet I didn’t want to say that. I was afraid that in Chris’s mind it might amount to some kind of invitation.

“They’re back in New York,” I lied. “I’ve stared at them over and over, and I just don’t see anything in them. But there
must
be something there.”

“I just can’t believe I made you come all this way for so little payoff.”

“But it’s not a little payoff. It’s really helping me focus on what matters. Up until now I’ve been chasing all sorts of angles—things like whether someone might be trying to sabotage Peyton’s business, even whether David’s ex-wife is staging the revenge of the forsaken flight attendant. But I realize now that I’ve got to concentrate on the wedding weekend. That’s what Robin was always worried about.”

I glanced at my watch. It was after ten, and I needed to be up at the crack of dawn the next day. And I was dying to see the photos again. Now that I had better reason to believe in their significance, something might finally jump out at me. Before I could announce my need to return to the Delano, Chris offered to make sure I got back safely.

“Why don’t we go by the beach, though,” he said. “It’s a much nicer walk.”

The beach was nearly deserted, except for a few couples out for romantic strolls. I slipped off my sandals and carried them in the hand next to Chris, just to be sure he didn’t reach out for me again.

I didn’t want to do anything to encourage the notion of us on a date. The ocean was as black as the sky, except for the faint white foam of the waves and the pinpoints of light from a cruise ship far off on the horizon. I’d taken one cruise in my life and had been bored to tears, yet whenever I see a ship at night, strung with lights like a carnival and looking like a dazzling jeweled brooch on the horizon, I feel an overwhelming yearning to be on board.

We walked in silence. I watched the black waves and thought about the pictures. Chris, hands stuffed in his pockets, seemed lost in thought. At one point two men passed us, arm in arm, and one of them ran his eyes over Chris. I couldn’t blame him. He was so drop-dead good-looking that it could make someone blubber.

Finally the Delano appeared ahead, white as a cruise ship itself.

“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” Chris said. “I’m gonna catch a cab home from there.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” I asked. We’d reached the pool and were walking along the rim of it toward the hotel area. There were still people scattered at some of the tables, drinking or eating late night suppers.

“No, I’m just gonna hang out, read, maybe do some body surfing.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did—talking to Kyle for me, convincing him to show tonight. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. Now that I’ve met him, I can see that getting him to do anything must be like trying to lasso an eel.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Well put. But look, Bailey, on a more serious note, will you do me a favor and just let me know what happens? This is scary stuff, and I’m going to be wondering about you.”

“Sure,” I told him. “I’ll give you a call and let you know.”

“I have to say I admire you for not being intimidated by this whole thing. I bet you were one heck of a Girl Scout.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, smiling. We were in the lobby now. The sheer white curtains blew in the breeze, as if someone had zigzagged through them only seconds before and then disappeared. I realized with relief, just from Chris’s tone, that there would be no campaign to get in my pants.

“And again, thanks for everything,” I said.

“I was happy to help. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. And thanks for dinner, too.”

I reached out to shake his hand. He took my fingers instead, leaned forward, and kissed me. It wasn’t much more than a brush of his lips, but it was long enough for me to feel their softness and to taste a hint of wine. Long enough, too, for me to feel a jolt of desire.

“That’s for good luck,” he said, smiling.

Okay, it’s not so terrible, I assured myself as I opened the door to my hotel room. He’d caught me off guard with the kiss, which, I reassured myself, I’d done nothing to encourage. Yes, I’d responded physically, but who wouldn’t have? The guy was a professional hottie, someone whose photographs alone were supposed to make women weak in the knees. Plus, I had other things to worry about now.

I dug the pictures out of my tote bag, but I didn’t look at them right away. I wanted to be sure I could give them my full attention with absolutely no distractions. After washing off my makeup, I stripped to my underwear and slipped on a cotton camisole. The chambermaid had switched the air conditioner on low, but I turned it off and instead opened the window a crack. Instantly a breeze wiggled its way through the opening and the pounding sound of the ocean filled the room. I turned back the bedcovers and, pictures in hand, plopped down, my back against the pillows. One by one I went through them: Peyton in her glory, Peyton and David kissing, Trip talking to a male guest by the bar, Mary surveying the ballroom, half a dozen shots of all the bridesmaids but Jamie, and assorted guests. I knew practically none of the latter—most were family members of the bride and groom or friends of theirs from Greenwich. I realized it would be helpful to have someone more familiar with all the players examine the pictures with me.

Peyton. She was the perfect candidate. In fact, I should have solicited her help earlier.

Despite my nap on the beach, my eyes felt heavy with fatigue. But I didn’t want to go to bed until I’d called Jack. I had promised to ring him from Miami, and I knew that if I didn’t, especially in light of how our last conversation had ended, it would only accentuate the clunkiness between us. I used my cell rather than the hotel phone to dial his number. All I got was his answering machine. As I listened to his deep, melodic voice, I glanced at the clock at the bedside table. Close to eleven. It was odd for him to be out this late on a school night. I left a message saying that my trip had proven fruitful and that I was looking forward to seeing him this weekend. My voice sounded odd to me, as it had last Sunday in my apartment—an octave higher and kind of staccato. Was I feeling guilty about the kiss from Chris? Or was it simply because of the awkwardness that had formed between us lately? I wondered what Jack’s assessment would be as he listened to my message.

Despite my churning emotions, I slept through the night, the first time I’d accomplished such a feat in a few days. When I woke, the sun had just come up and the sky was bleached of color. There was a lump in my stomach as I threw my summer clothes into my bag. Though I was eager to show the wedding photos to Peyton for her insight, I was nervous about being back home, easily in the sights of a killer.

Since I’m bad with directions, I’d arranged for an inexpensive car service to take me to my appointment in Ft. Lauderdale rather than rent a car. The drive took about thirty-five minutes, less than I’d expected, but then we were doing a reverse commute. The woman’s house, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, was a small white bungalow with louvered Caribbean-style shutters and a yard overgrown with junglelike plants whose fronds bobbed gently in the morning breeze. But inside there was none of that Graham Greene feeling. The walls were painted an ugly mustard yellow, and the only pieces of furniture in the living room were a dingy white couch and two black director’s chairs.

With so much on my mind, I’d been afraid that I’d have a hard time concentrating on the interview, but I’d worried for nothing. The woman’s case was riveting. In applying for a car loan she’d discovered that someone had stolen her identity and she’d spent the next five years trying to get it back. The stress had given her colitis and wrecked her marriage. “I used to be a fun person,” she said to me desperately.

On the way to the airport I packed my tape recorder and jotted down a few impressions in my composition book. As we reached the exit to the airport my phone went off. It was my brother Cameron.

“What’s up?” he asked. “You sounded anxious to connect.”

I had no intention of telling him about the murders. I adore my brother, but he’s a bit of a scaredy-cat—when we were growing up his idea of an adventure was playing Marco Polo in a swimming pool—and he’s always suggesting my work is “too close to the edge.” If I spilled anything to him about my current situation there was an excellent chance he’d not only go into anaphylactic shock but also blab to my mother. Instead I made it seem as if I were working on some kind of human interest story. Without naming names, I described David and Trip’s business and the words Prudence had overheard.

“He said, ‘Why didn’t you book a profit on Phoenix’?” Cameron asked.

“I think so. Could there be some significance to that company, do you think?”

“Never heard of it. Sounds like it might be Asian. But the other part of the phrase interests me. That could mean something.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know how a hedge fund works, right?”

“I know it has nothing to do with garden hedges, but that’s about it.”

“Hedge funds buy and sell securities. They’re kind of like stocks. A hedge fund manager is always managing the profits and losses and trying to come out ahead. Some of these securities are on exchanges, so it’s easy to keep track of how they’re doing, but others are less visible. You have to depend on the expertise and integrity of the manager to mark them accurately—as far as their profits and losses go.”